


shatter

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Papyrus is a creep, Sadism, breaking bones, ignoring a safe word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8439100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He thinks you’re a sadist and that’s only half of the game.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I like Papyrus being a creep.  
> He just wants to hurt Sans a lil.

   You want to break him.  
   It’s been lingering at the back of your mind for awhile- the desperation to bend him, squeeze him, apply just enough pressure until his bones nearly snap. It’s  
   not healthy.  
   It’s just.  
   You’re watching him, now, and he’s- he’s so relaxed, meets your gaze for a moment, smiles, full of.  
   Full of what?  
    _Hey, bro_ , he says, but you  
want to scoot closer, want to wrap your hands around his neck, want to pin him to the couch, want to  
look away with a small smile of your own.  
    _You okay?_  
   No, no, no, you’re not, you’re not you need help you _need help you need to stop this_  
    _I’m okay!_ You don’t look at him. _Just a little distracted!_  
   You’re not.  
    _Distracted with what?_ He prods, and he’s looking at you, doing that. That _thing_. In your peripheral vision the clinical look in his eye, searching, and you just  
   jump at him, slam your elbow into his chest, hear his sternum shout in pain, a thin noise that splits the air and  
   laugh gently, close your eyes to block out your partner’s. _It’s nothing to worry over, Sans. Stop that._  
   You peek your eye open to see him sigh a little, resigned, and slide down, and you don’t doubt his spine sliding against another rough surface could invoke more reaction, but he looks tired. Best it didn’t stimulate him, really. _Ah, yeah. Haha_ , his laugh is too bitter, too- mocking? As if you didn’t understand it was strained, _sorry, Pap_.  
   You think it’d be adorable for him to call you Papy again, and _he_ should be the one treated like a child (he’s smaller) or  
that you should pin his body beneath yours and force your fingers between the discs of his spine or maybe shove them down, down into his throat until he heaves and  
    _Stop_ , your mind screams, and you hope you don’t say it aloud, _stop stop stop_.  
   He quiets again, and you look at him, soul pounding shallowly in your ribcage.  
   You can’t  
   do anything.

   Your fingers brush across his iliums.  
   He’s settled comfortably in your lap, head against your sternum, peaceful. Desire pumps hot through your bones, and you’re not sure what it is exactly.  
   Whether you want to drive him against you or into the ground.  
   He shifts back against your hand, and you— you sigh a little bit, because he’s so responsive and you love it, and the tips of your fingers press.  
   He gasps a tiny bit, a pleased little noise, and he shudders when you abruptly drag your fingers against the bone. _Ah_ , he breathes.  
   You slam his hips down abruptly, bury your hands into his shorts until he’s bucking and whining, spine arching and he’s so delicate, so, so _delicate_ , he could snap under your touch, you could jerk on his pubis and it would break clean in two and you—  
_Papyrus_ , he gasps, desperately rutting into your hand, voice tipping up into a whine before crashing back down into a sharp moan. His magic is cold around your fingers.  
   You feel around for the oversensitive bud, fingers brush against it, _a-ah_ , he whimpers, _ye-yeah, please._  
   His body jerks when you pinch it too harshly, but instead of reacting like he’s in pain, a cry ripples from him and his pelvis swivels, but you want him to hurt, he’s such a freak that he squeals and squirms and begs for more.  
    _Ah_ , he sighs when your fingers slip inside him. _N—_  
   He’s still bucking when he comes, clenching down on your fingers and rooting them in place but you remove them, ignoring he whine, and you  
   you.  
   You don’t know.  
   But a sob rips from his throat and it finally registers that you must have done _something_.  
   You shift your fingers and another keening noise leaves him, flinching back into your chest and yet away from your touch, and you realize  
   not all those bones are connected anymore.  
   The trusting, chilly magic is gone. He’s scared, so scared, and you want to cause more damage.  
   No, that’s not right.  
   Your fingers shift and he jerks up, a wet noise choking in his throat, and you find that. You find that really…  
   Your fingers wrap around his ischium, pull till he’s sobbing harder, and you’re finally starting to register that he’s talking— _Papyrus, Pap, what are you, what, why, please stop, stop, snap— snap out of— p-please stop—_ and his voice is trembling and hitching with little sobs, jerking away from your touch, and wow.  
   And your resolve  
   snaps.

   It’s quiet.  
   You watch him from where you can, trained on the way his femurs shake a little in effort to keep himself up, and shame flushes down on you, tidally.  
   You’re in some sort of hospital.  
   He needs to be fixed.

   He settles next to you, and your fingers tense.  
   He’s gentle, so loving, so _pure_ and sweet and nobody knows it. He’s protecting and fierce and at the same time soft, with the smooth curve of his body to demonstrate. Nobody truly knows this except you.  
   And you, the only person who sees his soft side, truly, want to  
   break him  
   You haven’t, but you want to, oh. He’s so buried in his love that he’s blind. It would be fun to twist his arm until it snaps, see the look on his face combined with pain as you shatter his entire world.  
    _Pap_. You shake your head. _Yeah, Sans?_  
    _…You can hurt me if that’s what you want._  
   He thinks you’re a sadist and that’s only half of the game.

   Sans is really loud.  
   It’s refreshing, because you bend his spine, press your knee into it, trying to snap it, applying more and more pressure, he bucks, a long, low noise surfacing from his throat, which only chokes off into a louder sound as you wrench your leg down, and there’s a  
crack.  
    _Almost_ , you say.  
   When it snaps, he goes limp immediately, eye sockets devoid of anything, but dust does not appear. He’s fine.  
   You need to take him back to a healer.  
   Your play is getting expensive.

    _Stop sign_ , he says, while you’re bending his ulna in a way that it’s not supposed to.  
   You start.  
   The bone snaps.

   You find little tiny, linear marks on his ribs.  
   It’s okay.  
   You trace them with a knife of silver and catch his delicate marrow on your tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy halloween, everyone!


End file.
